Light A Candle For Me
by Blackadder2014
Summary: A white bat, suffering from eight years of amnesia, hires a sleazy detective to uncover her past. But what he finds threatens to bury them both and all she holds dear. When the danger rises and comes to close to home, she has to remember who she was before her family becomes just a memory. Based off the action thriller The Long Kiss Goodnight. Rated M for L, V and S.
1. PROLOGUE

_**LIGHT A** **CANDLE FOR** **ME**_

**PROLOGUE**

With lidded eyes roving in unsettled dreams, the young gray bat had been sleeping in fits and starts for an hour, but her mother was there with her, there to keep her from being afraid, there to assure that the noises outside were only the wind and the snow trying to haunt the eaves of the farmhouse, that nothing outside could hurt her, that Mommy was there and she was safe. It was true. There was nothing outside that could hurt the girl, nothing but the fat flakes of snow and the drifts so glad to swallow them when they hit the moonlit ground.

At this point the little girl was asleep. The mother moved around the room, cat paces, a vague shape in the dimness, things on her mind but foremost that her daughter should sleep. Right now there could be no other focus, the night had been too long.

The little bat's breathing seemed to hitch for a bit; the mother glanced down and saw the girl's ear flick in a dapple of moonglow reflected from the world outside through the room's single window, whose panes had been turned into frosty portholes by the cold.

Then the girl's eyes snapped open. She put out a stifled scream that rose like the squawk of a bird in a trap, then drifted off to sleepy mutters.

The mother dropped to her knees beside the bed. "Shhh," she intoned softly. "Mommy's here."

Silence. The mother let her eyes slide shut: please, God, keep her asleep. But she cried out again: "MOMMY! THE MAN!"_  
_

"Shhh, it's okay, sweetie. He's gone now," she gently stroked a hand over her daughter's ashen fur atop her head. "I'm here with you. Mommy will always be here and no one can ever hurt you, understand? You're safe now. Safe and warm. Snug as a bug in a rug."

Tears shown on her cheeks, but the child's breathing soon became steady.

"If I sit here with you," the mother asked. "do you think you can sleep?"

The young one nodded, her head rustling softly against the pillow. "Maybe if you turn on the night-light."

"Sure," she passed her hand over her daughter's eyes. "Close up tight now; concentrate on sleep. I love you."

"Yes, Mommy."

The mother bat hesitated, then rose silently to her feet. Staggering just a little - the night _had_ been long - she found her way to the wall where a Mee Mee the monkey night-light resided in a socket next to the regular switch. She felt for it, found it, and clicked it on. A cocoon of gentle light grew from it.

The girl broke her promise. She opened her eyes, then slammed then quickly shut again. All of it had not been a dream, not been a nightmare. Mommy's clothes were in rags and her arms and face were splashed in blood in the shapes and colors of hot, splattered lipstick. There was even a crimsom spray of it across the side of the machine gun that hung on a blackened strap from her shoulder. Though the girl was a pretty bright reader, she couldn't make out the words that were written in a strange language metal-stamped on the gun's side, but there was one knot of characters she could make out - H&K MP-5.

Snow beat softly against the window glass. The wind around the eaves hooted and moaned, telling secret tales to the farmhouse, urging the little bat to a sleep she would find, despite the terror, in just a few minutes.

And in the semidarkness her mother waited.

Just waited in silence.

And thought back on it all...

* * *

_ This fanfic is based off one of my favorite action flicks The Long Kiss Goodnight from New Line Cinema, 1996._

_All Sega, Archie, and Fleetway characters as well as all other trademarked properties copyright of their respective owners._


	2. CHAPTER ONE

**CHAPTER ONE**

**Nine days earlier**

As far as Christmas parades go, the one taking place that winter in Moorehaven Cove, Green Hills would win nobody any prizes. Waving howdy to the crowds, merrily chortling his "Ho's" in their customary groups of threes, Santa Claus was at the helm of his sleigh as it was pulled along Main Street by two sorry-looking swayback horses, and behind him trailed a line of elderly yuletide floats pulled by cars and farm tractors. This year Santa was in reality the town's fire marshall, grumpy ol' Ellis Bearenger, a semi-large salt-and-pepper-furred grizzly bear, trussed up in a moth-eaten Santa suit that had been stitched, patched and repatched together from many, many seasons of use.

Beside Ellis, attired in full Christmas regalia, sat Mrs. Claus, this year a young ivory-furred vampire bat named Brianna Elizabeth VonBargen. The Christmas songs blasting from loudspeakers that hung from the light poles above the street had already given her a killer headache, and she was tired of waging a constant war to keep Ellis' lecherous hands off her. She was heartbreakingly beautiful; the face of an angel crossed with the beguiling, sultry allure of a 1940s femme fatale. She looked like a movie star, like a woman born for a life of glitz and glamour. But she had found beauty to be a two-edged sword. She could bend a man to her will, though she rarely did it; she was the constant victim of ogling stares and come-ons and wolf whistles - and slyly groping hands, like Ellis' right hand now as he placed his high on the thigh of her Mrs. Santa suit.

"Paws OFF!" she hissed angrily at him.

"Paws?" Ellis grumbled, his hand gradually skimming up the warm, smooth gradient of her thigh. "Claus-paws, eh?"

Brianna grabbed his hand before it could creep any higher and gave it a hard twist, prying his stubby fingers from her leg. "You wanna eat that hand, Santa?" she warned dangerously through a beaming smile, keeping up the ruse of the happy spouse to Father Christmas.

"Ow! Hey!" the surly old bear yanked his hand away. "No way for a wife to treat her husband."

"And that's no way for Santa Claus to act."

"Hm, is that right?" Ellis reached between his own legs and hoisted out a bottle of Wild Turkey, which he began to unscrew while trying to hold the reins. "Well, looky here, _Mrs_. Claus," he grinned stupidly at her, the steam of his breath leaking between the stubs of his horrible teeth. "according to the terms of our marriage, I get to put my Claus-paws on any part of that hot little body I so choose."

"Try it and you'll be delivering presents with one arm this year, fat man," Brianna then spotted the bottle and frowned. "For the love of - would you put that away?!" she rasped at him, eyeing the sea of parade-goers flanking both sides of their sleigh. "Ten bazillion kids and their families are watching, not to mention the local TV cameras broadcasting this parade all over the state. Nobody, and I mean, _nobody,_ wants their kids seeing jolly ol' Saint Nick pickling himself while piloting his sleigh on live television. So get rid of that and start makin' with the ho-ho-hos. This is almost over."

He made a noise that matched the dissatisfaction and disappointment on his face, but begrudgingly, he stashed the bottle away. "I'm freezin' my rocks off and I'm supposed to be jolly?"

"You and me both, honey," commiserated Brianna. "You and me both."

As the caravan dragged on, Brianna smiled vivaciously to the parade-goers, waving at them, tossing handfuls of penny candy to children. Off to the side, some raucous hooting caught her attention and her eyes snared onto a trio of burned-out teenagers checking her up and down with the avidity of a troop of drunken businessmen at an all-nude strip club.

"OOOOOW-WOOOWWW!" one teen, a multi-striped calico cat howled through his hands coned around his mouth. "Goddamn! Mrs. Claus is HAWT!" he started.

His buddy, an orange-pelted squirrel with black and brown stripes streaking across the top center of his curled bushy tail, squeezed an imaginary pair of breasts in his hands. "Hellz yeah! I know what I want under _my_ fuckin' tree this year, dudes!"

The final boy, a candescently-scaled iguana gestured rudely to his groin. "Hey, I got a candy cane you can suck on, Mrs. Claus!" they all started cackling brackishly, extremely proud of themselves.

The white bat's eyes narrowed on the little punks and with a particularly large wad of candy clutched in her fist, flung the tiny confectionaries at the teens with the precision of a WWII flying ace making a strafing run, pelting the boys hard and beaning the iguana in the eye.

"Nasty little perverts," she blustered through her teeth.

"Ho ho ho," Ellis barfed out tiredly. "Ho ho ho. Merry Christmas," he slapped the reins limply across the horses' backs. "On Dasher, on Prancer, on Comet and, and Blitzen. On Cupid, and, ub, Thresher, and Freddy, and Jason."

Brianna closed her eyes and lowered her head, pinched the bridge of her nose with a thumb and forefinger. _"That_ should make the news," she groaned to herself. She squirmed on the hard wooden seat, thoroughly sick of the music and the jingle bells the horses wore. Her head was pounding now, she could feel her beating pulse in the depths of her large chiropteran ears. "This dumb costume's giving me a wedgie, driving me freakin' nuts," she snarled quietly. "Who'd they buy this thing for, a twelve-year-old? Too bad there's so many kids around."

Ellis nodded. "Yeah, you don't wanna go rootin' around in your undies just now. Ho ho ho."

"No kidding. Can you imagine little Billy saying, 'Mommy, how come Mrs. Claus is checking her plumbing?'"

_"Checking_ her _plumbing?_ This is little Billy talkin'?" Ellis eyed her.

"Yeah. Only four years old. The kid's unbelievable."

The bear rolled his bleary eyes. Again Brianna dug through the bushel basket beneath the seat and tossed cheap candy to the crowd, smiling and waving and needing to find a bathroom fast. The parade was set to end at the police blockade on North Buckner Avenue, which was only a few blocks away, thank the Lord.

"Ggrrrr, my shoulders," she grunted miserably at Ellis, and ground her fist into the small of her back, giving the sails of her wings a tension-relieving stretch; the sound they made akin to someone bending a brand new leather wallet. "I'm getting too old for this, man."

"And the ride only gets better," Ellis nudged his head in a direction. "Smile, darlin'."

Ahead and to the right, she noticed, was a WSOA Channel 13 camera trained on her face as the horses dragged the sleigh past. She quickly whipped out a dazzler of a smile, tossed some candy, blew it a kiss. "God, I think I'm going to pee myself if this doesn't end soon," she murmured haggardly through her bristling pearly whites.

"Spare me the piss stories," Ellis grumbled. "I've got a prostate the size of a fucking melon. Half my life I've lived with a doctor's hand up my ass. I should marry the fucker."

"M'kay, could you say that a little louder there, Santa? There's a little kid in outer Holoska who didn't quite catch that?"

The grumpy old bruin snorted out a noseful of steam. "It isn't that little Billy bastard again, is it?"

Sniggers rose out of her. She couldn't help it, taking what little measure of levity she could find on this dreary and dreadful day. Laughter, at this point, could be disastrous. But it was either laugh or go stark raving crazy. Maybe both, the evening was young. The horses smelled like a manure factory, beside her sat a crusty old drunk whose threadbare Santa beard had drooped down so that the mustache was under his chin, she had to piss like a teenager at a kegger, and the whole frozen world was looking at her with eyes and cameras. Never again, Brianna Elizabeth VonBargen swore to herself, never again would she be railroaded into performing in another Christmas parade.

Until, she realized glumly, maybe next year. Geraldine Harold Hammond, wife of the mayor and Moorehaven Cove's perpetual activities planner, was not an easy woman to deal with. Brianna Elizabeth VonBargen, if it must be known, was not exactly the assertive type. Never had been.

But sometimes, things change.


	3. CHAPTER TWO

**CHAPTER TWO**

Trevor Michelson Underwood was a tall, light brown field mouse edging toward thirty-five without complaint, a good-natured sort who always looked a little rumpled, always seemed to be about a half-measure behind the beat of the band. But rather than being taken as absentminded, he came across as a guy who was thoughtful, purposeful. Intelligent, even. A teacher of high school French, he was not hated by his students, though they obviously hated French. On Sunday and Wednesday mornings, he led the children's choir at St. Paul's Episcipol Church while on some Thursday nights he could be found down at the Dead Poet's Tavern jamming electric guitar with the band.

Brianna had been living with Trevor for two years and a handful of months now. A teacher herself - fifth grade elementary, my dear Watson - she had first spotted the handsome rodent at a PTA meeting when he gave a talk at the microphone with his pants unzipped. As he spoke - and faces reddened - Brianna, sitting in the front row, stroked the crotch of her slacks up and down with a finger so long she nearly gave herself an orgasm, but he finally noticed the hint and turned to close the barn door. After the meeting he came to thank her. They shared Kool-Aid and cookies and chatter, and shook hands to say goodbye.

The next evening he was on the phone.

Right now, though, the Christmas parade was over, Brianna had extricated herself out of that torture device of a Mrs. Claus costume and into some regular winter clothes, and the couple was walking out of a Super 8 grocery store with a paper bag of party makings propped in the crook of each elbow. Despite the bright sun overhead the air was still as cold as dawn, and the clouds of their breath walked with them as they talked.

"Trev," Brianna was saying. "I just have to tell ya - of all the Christmas pageants I've ever seen, this was by far the most recent."

Trevor laughed, and sent a wink her way. The celery for the Bloody Marys poked up from his grocery bag, tickling his nose with its stunted leaves, and he nearly sneezed. "Cut me a break, will ya? It was a small town operation," he said. "You saw the high school float? I got teenage girls playing the three wise men bringing gifts to an old Cabbage Patch Kids doll, what'd you expect?"

"Teenage boys?" Brianna jabbed, adjusting her bags.

"Well, I thought they did just fine."

"Just fine?" she laughed. "Sounds like Tony award winning stuff. The very first Nativity scene where Joseph stares at the wise men's tits all night."

Trevor turned his nose up in an exaggerated show of disdain. When that grew old he relented and moved closer beside her, to which she nuzzled him lovingly, and they walked merrily the rest of the blocks admiring the bright blue sky and the brilliant magic of the ice in the trees. The snow-caked sidewalk veered right and they stepped off it: their house was atop a gentle roll to the left at the end of the street. Two story A-frame, mid-seventies modern, white vinyl siding, moated in brambles of Christmas lights that failed twice a night, the average for the six days since Trevor strung the damn things through the hedges.

"Did we forget Dawn?" he asked her. "Weren't we supposed to find her in the crowd?"

Dawn was Brianna's daughter. "That kid? Probably already home. Either up in the treehouse or inside trying to beat your high score at Angry Birds on the Wii U," Brianna upgraded her voice to a cry. "Dawn? Come help us in the kitchen please!"

No reply. The big oak tree that had grown a treehouse two summers ago was ahead. Trevor glanced upward as they passed beneath. "Got movement at twelve o'clock," he said as he angled his eyes up at the bottom of the dwelling. "She's probably got friends over too."

"She can still help with getting things together for the party," Brianna said, beginning to groan under the weight of her grocery bags. Teaching school did not involve a lot of physical activity; she vowed to return to her exercise bike soon, but knew instantly that it would never happen.

"Dawn?" she called out again. "If you're up there you'd better answer me!"

Actually, Dawn was there, but she was in no mood to answer. At the parade she had found a couple of brand-new friends, girls from the subdivision that had sprouted up a few years ago near the west side of Moorehaven, the place people in town called Pre-Fab Alley, whatever that was supposed to mean. These two girls, Marine, an orange and brown raccoon, and Cream, a peach-toned bunny rabbit with brown borders around the eyes and at the tips of her long lop ears, did not know any of the secrets about Dawn's mom. And the whole _world_ knew about Dawn's mom - or so she had thought.

_"Amnesia,"_ she repeated for her new friends. They were huddled quite conspiratorially in the center of the treehouse, a dangerously leaning box made of various breeds of lumber, some planks wearing paint of red or gray or blue, some naked and bleeding gobs of sap. _"Total_ amnesia," Dawn added. "her whole past life _gone."__  
_

In the little bat's hands was a pre-Christmas present from her mother, a blue plush chao doll Mom had christened "Mr. Thomme". Dawn made him dance between her hands while Marine and Cream, outsiders that they were, dealt with this bizarre piece of information.

"You say she woke up on a beach in Emerald Coast?" it was Marine, the older of the two.

"Uh-huh."

"Didn't remember her own name or nothin'?"

"Uh-huh. Not her name. Not anything."

The two girls exchanged incredulous stares.

Cream then pursed her lips, shook her head. "Uhn-uh. Too weird."

"Uh-huh!" Dawn glared defensively at the doe.

"No way."

"It's true! My mom does have amnesia!"

Marine frowned. "Then how does she know her name's Brianna?"

Dawn would have been happy to reply, but the trapdoor of the treehouse levered upward, and her mother's head poked through the porthole, framed by her large bat ears and autographed with a brilliant smile. The two girls scooted over a notch, spooked. Brianna was eyed as if she was a ghost who'd just risen from its grave.

"Hello, girls," Brianna greeted the two newcomers.

"Hi..." the doe and the raccoon replied in unison, timid as titmice.

Brianna's head swiveled to her daughter. "Dawn, honey?" a hint of parental authority in her tone. "Come help us in the kitchen, please. When you're done you can come back and play with your friends, okay?"

"O-kay," Dawn replied in a mope, her eyes downcast. Mr. Thomme had suddenly lost the urge to boogie. The two girls just stared.

"Well, hurry up," Brianna groused. "'Cause you know I forget where the kitchen is," then her head popped back down through the portal, the trapdoor levered shut.

Young eyes widened and a round of sharp gasps were stolen. Three freaked elven faces studied one another as Dawn's earlier outlandish claims of her mother's condition had now been brought astonishingly to fact.

"Nooo waaaay..." Cream uttered under her breath, eyes still saucer-wide.

The trio jumped at the sharp squeak of the trapdoor as it levered back up, and the head of Dawn's mother popped back through, her face alight in enigmatic intent. Apparently these girls had no knowledge of the acuity of a bat's hearing. She inspected their faces and a sly grin perked the cast of her gorgeous features. "Gotcha!"

Squealish shrieks erupted.

Brianna snaked her arms through the trapdoor and reached for her daughter, a tickle attack ensued. Soon the little treehouse was filled with the sweet sounds of laughing children.

Little young girls in treehouses are hard to amuse when you're thirty-five and unwelcome. Or thirty-four. Or ten fucking million and four, your entire past a mystery and the name Brianna Elizabeth VonBargen an honest guess. But she had to do something, right?


	4. CHAPTER THREE

**CHAPTER THREE**

Same night, same locale, the sun long gone from the sky. The seventies-style house with the hedges wired for color and its door thrown open to accommodate some twenty, thirty guests, almost all of them high school and elementary school teachers, was alive with the raucous sounds of joyous banter, laughter, and high spirits. A sock-hoppy rendition of _Rockin' Around The Christmas Tree_ wafted celebratoriously throughout the decked halls. Even grumpy ol' Ellis Bearenger, fire marshall and everybody's favorite town drunk, uninvited and drunker than ever, was there to partake in the festivities. The front closet was stuffed to bursting with fat winter coats, the maple brown ceramic tiles of the foyer was slicked with melted ice tracked in from outside. In such chunks of detail Brianna would remember tonight. This house would always be, for her, the only home she could ever belong to.

Over the last eight years she had hired detectives to uncover her past, good detectives that were expensive, bad detectives that were cheap. Currently she had some bottom feeder named Vector Ian Ospina working the case, and man, was he cheap!

But eight years is long enough to rebuild a life. On the day she'd awakened on an Emerald Coast beach she was a couple of weeks pregnant with Dawn, father unknown, of course. She was wearing a red blouse and black jeans. In one rear pocket was a small key bearing the fresh wounds of a metal file that had stripped it of identification. Now she wore it on a charm bracelet, her only key, so to speak, to the past.

Tonight Trevor was doing his best to be a comedian for their guests. Not a very funny guy to begin with. In fact, he was quite corny. Three eggnogs had reduced him to Groucho Marx. Currently, as Brianna floated into the living room to deposit another bowl of Chex party mix on the living room table, Trevor was banging a spoon against his champagne glass, demanding silence and not getting it. Brianna rolled her eyes. Just at the edge of the sofa, a small hand was rising up at the elbow of Dr. Darius Maxwell, a dark-furred wolf with silver streaks about his hair and facial features denoting his age, and the MCISD's superintendent. His jacket pocket had fallen open to reveal a pack of Salem Lights cigarettes. The hand sneaked inside and went fishing for one.

Brianna cruised over and slapped the hand away, "Manic!" she barked. "If I ever catch you smoking, they'll never find the body, understand? Now get out of here and go play in the den with Ellis and the other kids. Scoot!"

Manic stood up from behind the arm of the couch, a scrawny green hedgehog with wild, spiking quills and dark, shifty eyes that spoke of a future in organized crime - if he ever passed the fifth grade. "Yes, Ms. VonBargen," the little twerp mumbled glumly and ambled off.

Dr. Maxwell sat there blinking stupidly, three-quarters loaded on the vodka and Coke he favored, totally unaware of the incident that just occurred right next to him. He then noticed Brianna and smiled, raising his glass.

"Ah, Brianna. Wonderful...wonderful party."

"Thanks, Darius," she said, looking over the wolf's slightly toasted face. "You know, I don't think I've ever seen you with your hair down, doc. Reprobate becomes you."

"Repro-whaaaa, what?" Brianna tittered at the usually conservative administrator's slurred and uneven speech. "Incapacisaded - intoxisssasid - _drunk?_ Me? Nooooo, nonono."

"Uh-huhn. And just how many of those have you had, exactly?"

"Aaahb...two, three," the doctor was wobbling and drifting. "five..."

"Maybe you should slow down a little."

"Oh, Brianna. I'm fine."

"Mh-hm."

"I'm as fid as a fittle."

Brianna paused. "What?"

"Fiddle...as a...fit?" his brow furrowed in confusion. "Fibble...fittle..." Dr. Maxwell blanked, blinked, then looked at the white bat as if she'd just materialized out of thin air right in front of him. "Uh, what were we just talking about, Brinanna?"

Brianna turned to the crowd. "MRS. MAXWELL!"_  
_

"Have you attention," Trevor blared into the air as he took center stage in the living room. "Your attention, _s'il vous plaît!_ Could everybody hush, please?"

Gradually heads began to turn, at least enough of them that Trevor felt compelled to orate. "As the year draws to a close," he sang out, "I'd like to share with you a few things about myself. Things of which I'm especially proud."

Brianna steeled herself. Last year when he made such a speech, he had sworn to the audience, almost all of the same people in attendance as tonight, that he'd have her pregnant by New Year's Eve or die trying.

Just then before Trevor began speaking, Dawn rushed into the living room and wrapped herself around Brianna's waist. Brianna looked down at her daughter's glowing face and held her warmly, twitching her nose playfully at her.

Trevor held his glass aloft. "First, I'm proud to say that I don't smoke, I don't drink, and I don't swear."

Pause for effect.

He grinned drunkenly. "Oh shit, I do smoke and drink."

There was an ovation of groans and chuckles; groans coming mainly from the ladies. Brianna flattened her daughter's ears to her head, admonishing her beau with a shake of the head and a harried glare. "Aaaw, good one, honey. Cute. Real cute."

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry," Trevor said mirthly, basking in his jeers and cheers.

"Yeah, right," kissable red lips pursed in mock annoyance.

"C'mere, sweetheart," Trevor motioned for Brianna to join him in the center of the living room. She narrowed her eyes at the mouse in a _what-are-you-up-to?_ way. She disengaged herself from her daughter and with a coy smile joined him. Trevor looped an arm around her shoulders, raised his glass higher. "Everyone," his eyes perused the reluctant audience as other glasses rose to join him in a toast. "may the best of your past, be the worst of your future."

There were a few awes and here-heres.

"And right here," he went on, staring into Brianna's exotic ice blue eyes while her face colored slightly. "I'm standing next to my future."

When he dropped to a knee in front of Brianna the room became as silent as a tomb. Her eyes instantly widened, and her trembling hands went to cover the bottom portion of her face. From his pocket Trevor retrieved a tiny velvet case, cupped it in his hands and presented it to her.

"Bri," he began, gazing rapturously at the gorgeous chiropteran's shocked face. "ever since you and that precious little girl over there came into my life those scant two years ago, I've never been as happy. I can't imagine my life without you in it now. And in your quest to find your past, I want you to know that you're not alone, that I will always be there by your side, and we will solve this mystery together, as a family. And no matter what we find, it will never change the way I feel for the woman who stands before me now. That other person, the woman you were, the one you used to be. If we were to never find her again, let's kiss her goodnight."

He opened the case to reveal a dazzling three-stone diamond engagement ring, the silver band bordered with tiny glittering accent stones. Her eyes moistened as she studied the ring in disbelief, sparkling almost as luminously as those exquisite stones.

"You are...my eternity," he gently plucked the ring from its niche with forefinger and thumb, and held it out to her, awaiting her hand. "Brianna Elizabeth VonBargen. Will you marry me, and make me the happiest man this Christmas, and every Christmas, from here to the end of my life?"

Dawn was standing by the couch. She couldn't sit down, her little body brimming with excitement.

_Say yes, Mommy, say yes!_ she cheered in her mind. For Trevor as much as for her mother. How so much she wanted her mother to be happy this Christmas, for any time during those long grueling years she watched as her mother dealt with the unenviable ordeal of not knowing who she was, of not knowing her past. Watching her suffer with the disappointment and sorrow whenever those dumb detectives failed to find the answers she so desperately sought.

But Trevor was there to fill the emptiness. He made her mother so happy during the hard times. And Dawn loved him as well. He was such a wonderful guy. And how well the mouse filled the role of a positive male figure in the young bat's life. He treated her as his own and loved her just as equally.

It was, to Dawn, like witnessing one of the many fairy tales her mother would read to her at bedtime being played out right in front of her, live and in living yuletide color.

Little Dawn Corinne VonBargen, her young and imaginative mind so filled with wonderment and innocence; enchanted by all of the vivid fantasies of the handsome prince, risking all for the hand of the beautiful maiden. For only by facing great and insurmountable odds, and overcoming unfathomable challenges would their love triumph supreme; battling through the hardships and the strife, surviving the trials and the tribulations - and perhaps, even, with a little dumb luck - would the brave prince union with his lady faire, and they could ride off to live happily ever after. For Dawn, this was the happily ever after she wanted for her mother. This, and every Christmas henceforth.

_Say yes, Mommy! Pleeease!_

When Brianna found her voice again, it was warbly. "Oh, God...Trevor..." she looked into his brown eyes. Within them dwelled so much warmth and love and, _sweet mercy,_ a crippling anxiety that had seized the mouse's ability to breathe. In that moment, she realized that she couldn't see her life continuing on without him. Eyes aglow with a love so deep she couldn't possibly imagine its end, she gazed down at Trevor, allowing tears of joy to blossom and fall. "Yes...yes, I'll marry you," she cried, nearly overcome with emotion.

Trevor let out a gush of elated relief, his breathing kickstarting again.

The living room exploded in cheers and applause, all of their friends and colleagues happily acclaiming their heartfelt congratulations. Brianna held out a jittery hand and Trevor placed the ring on her finger. He rose to his feet and stared at the face before him that had never looked more radiant than at this moment. He embraced his new fiancée, dipped her backward into an arc worthy of Fred Astaire and pressed his lips to hers in a kiss fit for a lifetime of bliss and happiness. Brianna moaned, his mouth tasting sweetly of eggnog and rum.

The jubilation grew, and soon the room was blanketed with strobing white flashes from cellphone cameras, capturing this wonderful moment. The happy couple straightened, and Brianna waved to her daughter to join them. Dawn rushed over and Trevor and Brianna each extended an arm to include her. More cheers, more flashes, more merriment. The happy little family stood amidst the warm sentiments of their guests, looking Christmas postcard perfect, their entwined destinies bound to a future unknown.


	5. CHAPTER FOUR

**CHAPTER FOUR**

That same evening, a hundred miles away in Westopolis, a gray and black ferret named Terrell "Fleabag" Kowalski was laying buck-ass naked in a ratty brass bed in a cut-rate motel room, miles and miles from home. He was a small and shy little fellow, Fleabag was, late forties, a small appliance salesman by trade, married twenty-two years to his high school sweetheart. Unfortunately twenty-two years and four kids had taken a frightening toll on the sweetheart: she was now a two hundred and fifty pound cow with all the charm and social grace of a pissed-off scorpion. Their sex life was, to put it nicely, a steaming pile of dog shit. Nonexistent, really. A nonexistent steaming pile of dog shit, if you can wrap your head around that one.

The salesmen's convention Fleabag attended had ended a day early and instead of driving back home to be with his belligerent children, fat heifer of a wife, and insufferable in-laws for another suicide-contemplating holiday dinner of dry turkey and centuries-old fruit cake, the ferret was out cruising some of Westopolis' seedier areas with a wad of money in his sock, hoping to buy time with some tender young tail so that he could truly have a holly jolly Christmas.

Many times he had seen the streetwalkers, but never had he mustered the courage to stop and talk to one, not even when they whistled or shouted or rapped on the window of his car. So easily he could cold-call some old biddy or knock on the doors of total strangers and pitch his wares with exuberant aplomb, but when it came to trying to proposition a hooker for a bit of debauchery, well, his approach was laughable. Oafish, at best.

The problem? Fear. Fear and embarrassment. The only woman he'd ever known intimately, in his entire adult life, was his wife, and she hadn't turned him on since VHS tapes died. He was totally out of his element, the proverbial fish out of water. Even when a prostitute merely came into eyeshot, he would break out in a horrible case of hives. And if, by some miracle, he did manage to land one, his fears would only escalate to ridiculous, self-depreciating degrees. What if he disrobed and they pointed and laughed? What if he crammed his sausage into some tasty young whore and she said, "Okay, you can stick it in now."

But tonight, this glorious, blessed Saturday night a few days before Christmas, fate would treat him kindly. Minding his own beeswax at a local lounge, begging God and Jim Beam for the courage to pick up a hooker, a woman plopped right down on the stool beside him and asked Fleabag to buy her a drink. When he swiveled his head in the direction of the low and sultry voice he nearly flattened together his palms and raised his head in praise as the answer to his tawdry prayers seemed as if to had fallen right from the heavens.

Next to him sat the most desirable creäture his poor eyes had ever fallen upon in person. She was a ravishing merlot-furred fox with dark brunette hair; piercing indigo eyes, full ruby painted lips, and enough overflowing cleavage to fill Red Mountain. For the first time since buying his last copy of _Cunt Hunt_ two weeks ago, his pecker stirred.

"Well?" the vixen prompted with a fetching smile.

Fleabag bought her a gin and tonic.

She looked like a hooker; too much makeup and her wavy mane all piled on top of her head. She was dressed like a hooker; a shiny black PVC pin-up dress that molded to her killer curves like a condom on an erect dick. She smelled like a hooker; about a gallon of cheap perfume splashed all over her like she bathed in the stuff. She even chewed gum like a hooker; _snap-snap-snap._

Yet still he hesitated to proposition her. What if she wasn't a hooker? A guy could get slapped in the face or beat up by a jealous boyfriend doing this kind of risky shit. What if she was an undercover cop hunting for arrests? Oh, the unspeakable hell he would face having to explain that one to the missus. He would have to wait, let her make the first move.

She did. Her hand hidden under the shade of the bar, she rubbed firmly atop Fleabag's thigh, her enigmatic smile broadening to reveal sharp white teeth. "Lookin' for some company, sweetie?"

Fleabag instantly froze. His mind fizzled like two Rolaids tablets in a glassful of water and his tongue felt like it had swelled to twice its size and soaked up all the moisture in his mouth, inabling him to speak.

The fox was eyeing him now, chewing incessantly at her bubble gum. "Hey, you deaf?" she asked. "You no speaka da English?"

Somehow Fleabag was able to squeak out a tiny little: "...no."

"That's better," she saucily purred as her hand eased further up his lap. "So, I ask again," slender fingers pranced mischievously over the small tent that had pitched itself in the crotch of Fleabag's slacks. "Would you like some company tonight?"

Fleabag nearly groaned aloud. His little fellow ached so bad to her touch it felt as though his entire groin was caught in a bear trap, and when she gave him a gentle squeeze the sensation had white spots dancing at the rim of his vision.

Again he managed to squeak, though, with a little more difficulty this time: "...yeah."

"I thought so," she crooned knowingly, looking at him from under her fiercely sexy eyebrows as she leaned in closer; a sideways glance rewarding Fleabag with the grandiose view of the shadowed valley between her ripe furry breasts. "So, what's your name, baby?"

Fleabag cleared the blockage that had congealed in his throat. "T-T-T-Terrell. Terrell Kowal-Kowalski. B-but my friends c-call me, F-F-Fleabag," he exhaled a great big huff of air, amazed at himself that he was able to get even a single word out of his mouth, let alone an entire sentence.

The fox drew back, looking somewhat repelled, and Fleabag's heart dived into his loafers. His mind reeled in maddening crisis trying to figure out the horrible gaffe he'd made.

_"Fleabag?"_ her brow cocked quizzically at the epithet.

He released a nervous chuckle then, now understanding her apprehension.

"Well, Fleabag, I hope that's just a nickname, and not a, uh, personal problem?"

"I, I'm sorry, no-_I, I mean yes! _Yes, it's, it's a nickname I picked up in college," he exclaimed. The female fox tittered seductively as Fleabag managed an awkward, bashful smile and looked down at the half-empty glass trembling in his hand. "It's a long story."

"Sounds fascinating. Maybe we could get together somewhere private, and you could tell me this long story, hm? I've got _all_ night," she suggested in a sly tone as she leaned toward him again, her moist red lips just a quarter of an inch away from his perked ear, making him shiver as she whispered. "Fifty for a blowjob, a hundred to fuck," her warm breath smelled of gin and Wrigley's. "Whaduya say, Fleabag? Wanna go somewhere and...chat?"

Nervously Fleabag looked at her, audibly gulping down a coconut-sized ball of trepidation in his dried-out throat. His thoughts were running in wild circles and his half-paralyzed brain worked its damnedest to get his mouth to make sounds that were somewhat remotely close to coherent verbiage. "I, I, I got...a, a h-hundred m-mo-mobiums."

"Mmmmh," she moaned, flashing him a smile that verged on the predatory. "I gotta place where we can go. Let's party."

And this is how Terrell "Fleabag" Kowalski ended up buck-ass naked in a ratty brass bed in a cut-rate motel room, miles and miles from home. .

The dark red vixen stood at the foot of the bed, eyeing Fleabag hungrily. Her raven hair, once updone, now tumbled past her shoulders in wild, untamed folds. Beneath the generous curves of her bust her body tapered down to a perfect wasp waist then swelled back out into lean, shapely hips on top of long, lithe legs. Her slick black dress clung to it all and shimmered wetly in the low light.

Fleabag watched, almost in a trance, as she reached for a zipper at the nadir of her bosom. "This is going to be the best hundred bucks you've _ever_ spent, baby," the smile she was giving him was pure filth. Slowly she pulled it down, her dark eyes never leaving his as she did so, revealing the soft swell of her luscious breasts clutched in the silk-and-lace cups of a black strapless bra. "I'm gonna make you feel so _gooood_."

_My God, what incredible boobies!_ Fleabag thought in his lust-hazed mind, eyes cueballing spasmodically.

"Like what you see, Fleabag?" the fox pushed the plush round globes of her lovely breasts together.

"T-t-to the point of g-going blind..." the ferret stammered, swallowing thickly.

She shimmied the skin-tight dress down until it slid over her thighs, then let it fall to pool like oil around her dainty little ankles. She stepped out of the black puddle and toed it aside, standing provocatively before Fleabag in just the bra, a matching thong, and liquid black stiletto heels. Her form was comely and tight; creamy white fur covered her flat stomach and perky breasts, melding beautifully with the deep red pelt that carpeted the rest of her, looking ever so soft and inviting. From behind, her bushy fox tail wagged from side to side, flagging her heat.

Fleabag felt his lust and intimidation rise as the fox hungrily licked her plump red lips and leaned over the end of the bed, spreading her hands flat out on the mattress. She lowered her head to the point where she almost had to be looking up in order to see him. The ferret found himself both speechless, and paralyzed, as she brought her right knee up onto the bed, then, slowly, the other. Chuckling softly, with this wicked grin stretched across her gorgeous vulpine face, the fox crawled on all fours stalkingly toward him like a hungry animal approaching its helpless prey. She kept her lurid gaze locked on him as she came closer and closer, closing in on him as he cowered under the bedsheets like a frightened child. With one smooth movement she tossed back an edge of the covers, scurried in and lay beside him, her warm body pressing delightfully up against his. Poor Fleabag thought he was going to have a stroke.

She put a slender arm around his chest and hooked one long leg over his knee, rubbing her shapely calf muscles lightly against the inside of his. She nuzzled his neck affectionately as her long bushy fox tail slithered between his legs, pleasurably teasing the sensitive underside of his tightened balls with slow, ticklish brushstrokes. "So, Fleabag," she cooed, her words dripping with honeyed sin. "are you ready for some of the best pussy you're ever gonna have?"

Damn, she was hot. Dirty fucking _sleazy_ hot!

Fleabag was beside himself, nodding his head like a nervous chimp. A billion fantasies exploded inside his mind, but he couldn't keep them straight. They flooded together, like billions of tiny dams that had just ruptured in front of his eyes. His heart pounded as if about to explode with the rest of him. She was a teenager's wet dream come to life. Her body was utter perfection and had his weeping phallus throbbing in desperate need to get deep inside it. He was going to do it, Fleabag elated in his head, he was actually going to bump uglies with this sweet fox whore.

She was snuggled up nice and cozy, the soft pillows of her bra-clad breasts nestled against Fleabag's bicep as she strummed a hand tenderly at the sweat-dampened pelt of his chest like she was playing an angelic tune on a harp. Ol' Fleabag was as stiff as a board. You'd have thought the little critter had expired and was in the first stage of rigor mortis.

The vixen planted hot, mouthy kisses on the ball of his shoulder. "Relax Fleabag, I don't bite," she soothed, all velvet and cream. "Unless you want me to."

"Oh, that feels n-n-nice..." muttered Fleabag, his voice cracking high a bit at the end of the sentence.

"It gets nicer, baby," the fox murred as she shoved him down flat onto the bed and climbed on top to straddle his skinny waist with her supple red thighs. She sat back arched above him, pinning him down by the wrists with her hands. Fleabag stared up at her in rapt amazement as her full breasts dangled just inches from his face. She hungrily licked her lush red lips with her little pink tongue again, then with a keening moan rolled her hips against the cradle of Fleabag's groin, grinding her pantied mound over his knobby erection, back and forth, hard and slow, prying a tortured groan from the overheated salesman. She leaned down closer, tilting her head slightly like she was going to sink her sharp canines into his throat and rip out a chunk, then peered voraciously into Fleabag's sagging eyes. "Much, _much_ nicer..."

Suddenly the motel room door was kicked open and three trenchcoated men tromped in. Two canines; a dark yellow hyena with black, muddy spots, and a rust-colored dhole, were led in by the first man - a tall, mean-looking, green and yellow-scaled crocodile.

"POLICE! DON'T ANYBODY MOVE!" the large reptile yelled. In one hand he flashed a golden badge from inside a flipped-open wallet which he held shoulder high, in the other was gripped a nickle-plated Smith & Wesson .38 snubnosed revolver, that he held at the hip. In his rumpled blue suit, Bailey Gentry fedora and a horrid tie covered in soup stains _(whoops, that's it's design, my bad),_ he looked, to Fleabag, like every 80s TV detective rolled into one. Fleabag's heart immediately stopped, and his brain shorted out like a bad electrical circuit. Or so it felt. He catapulted the lingerie-clad fox off of himself, stretched out a hand and began a cluck-like stammering.

"_Wh-wh-wh-whoa, whoa! What the f-f-f-f-fu-!"_

"Ah-ah-ah," the crocodile waggled an admonishing finger with the hand that held the badge, stifling the ferret. "Don't give me attitude, sir," the wallet containing the shield quickly vanished from view to be replaced by the bore of his gun. The two canines canvassed the room to the gavial's left. "See, you're assuming I won't shoot your mangy ass. And everybody knows when you assume things, you make an _ass_ outta _u_ and _me._ I'm Sergeant Esga, Vice. And if you do decide to cop a tude with me, cockbait, I will see to it that you spend the next ten years in prison getting ass-fucked by a bunch of big, burly, big-dicked muthafuckas. And if the case gets thrown out because my arrest was too violent, then I will personally _hire_ a bunch of big, burly, big-dicked muthafuckas to ass-fuck you for the next ten years. So unless you're a real ass-fuckin' fan, you go right on ahead and keep flappin' ya trap, but in the meantime I'm placing you under arrest for the crime of soliciting a prostitute. Now shut the fuck up before I shoot your limp little prick off and use it to clean the barrel of this gun."

During this diatribe Fleabag had covered his head with the bedcover like a death shroud. The fox eyed her fingernails tiredly, as if she'd heard the speech before, many times before.

"Officer Lipshitz," Sergeant Esga barked, and the hyena to his immediate right, who was at the time steadily ogling the prostitute's rack, jerked to attention. "read him his rights."

The hyena looked at Esga puzzledly. "His what?"

The other plainclothes officer, the dhole, wandered away, stumbling over his own feet.

Esga eyed the hyena from the side of his face and gestured with his high-risen brow. "His _rights_."

It took a moment before realization struck the hound. "Ah! Oh, okay, um, you, uh...you have the remight-" exasperation smeared across Esga's face. "-the right to, uh, remain silent?" Lipshitz looked to Esga as if to see if he had gotten it right. Esga rolled his gun-toting hand indicating to go on. "You, uh, have a right to an attorney. Anything you say can and, uh, will be used against you in the People's Court of law..."

Fleabag could see all of this clearly through the sheet, which was not exactly top-of-the-line linen. Finally he uncovered his head and spoke. "Officer, please," he pleaded. "you've, you've gotta believe me. I, I, I, I've never done anything like this. E-ever before. Evereverever_ever_ before, I swear, sir, on my mother's grave, that I've never done anything like this! Please, p-please, you gotta believe me, sir! I, I'll do anything, _anything,_ if you could just, just see past t-to let me off with j-j-j-just a, just a...warning?"

Esga's hard vermilion eyes sharpened on the blubbering rodent.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" Fleabag quickly recanted. "P-p-please, there's gotta be something I could...could-" he was damn near to tears at this point, for a moment he thought he was going to keel over and croak. "Please, officer. I have a wife, andandand four kids, andandandandand-"

"Stop, stop," the weary crocodile raised a hand, mercifully halting the ferret's pitiful groveling. Exhaling deep, the sergeant seemed to relax a little. "Well, look," he said the word "look" on a contemplative sigh, his eyes scanning the ugly decor of the motel room, then landed on the hooker. "it's obvious to see that you're not a wealthy man," the vixen's eyes narrowed venomously at the croc cop. "In light of the damage an arrest like this could do to you, I, um," he seemed to ponder things in his head. "might be able to make some kind of an arrangement."

Fleabag nodded quickly in agreement.

The dhole, unnamed up to this point, plopped heavily onto a chair, looking vaguely green under his scruffy fur. Fleabag frowned in his direction. "I-I-Is he gonna be alright?"

Lipshitz stood swaying on his feet like a palm tree in a hurricane. All eyes focused on the dhole as he dropped his head between his knees. He made a nasty, wet, belching noise, opened his mouth wide, then puked in huge liquidy chunks on the brown shag carpet.

The prostitute looked at the sergeant, silently and sourly mouthed: "Goddamn you, Vector."


	6. CHAPTER FIVE

**CHAPTER FIVE**

Vector Ian Ospina pushed open the door to his office, barged in, and plopped down at the tattered chair behind his desk. The window in the door, read in reverse now as it slammed shut, bore the words

**VECTOR I. OSPINA & ASSOCIATES  
CONFIDENTIAL INVESTIGATIVE SERVICES**

which was a big lie, since Vector Ospina had no associates and had earned his private eye license by bribing a clerk at the courthouse in Casinopolis.

The door popped open again. Fleabag's "prostitute" - in actuality, Vector's secretary, Fiona Talbot Fox, walked in sheaving through a respectable wad of cash. "Vector," she said, a thick lower east side accent lilting her words. "we gotta stop usin' bums on these jobs."

Vector fished a cigarette out of a pack in his top drawer. "Forget that!" he said as he scoured for a lighter. "They looked enough like cops. We pulled it off, didn't we?"

Fiona, wearing Vector's trenchcoat in order to conceal her streetwalker attire, dropped down onto her chair, a straightback wooden job to match her glue-together Wal-Mart desk. "It was fucking embarrassing."

The croc took a big drag off the smoke. "What, you want me to hire some real fucking actors for chrissake?" he said, blowing a dense cloud of cancer into the air. "You can get that idea outta your head, sweetheart. These bums are cheap. Hell, they'll work for food."

"Uh-huh," Fiona slapped the bills flat out. "So when they puke all over you is that sorta like a refund?"

Vector faux-choked on a faux-chuckle, chugging smoke from the sides of his mouth like a chimney with its flue shut. "Oh, Fi, I'm pissin' on myself over here, you're so goddamn funny."

"Yeah, yeah. And where the hell were you, huh? I gave the "line". Why didn't you bust in there when I said it? I nearly had to cowgirl that mook."

"Hey, baby," Vector said coolly. "Me and the fellas was out in the hallway perfecting our lines."

Fiona scoffed. "Right. Perfecting your lines. Like that doofus trying to recite Fleabag his Miranda Rights. _That's_ perfecting your lines, V? In the _People's Court_ of law? Seriously?! Jesus, they oughta give laughin' boy a friggin Oscar for that stellar performance."

Vector truly began laughing at that.

"Oh, and the other guy horkin' his guts out in the chair?" Fiona fixed Vector with a smarmy expression, sarcastically flashing him the OK hand sigh. "Bravo, V. Bra-_fucking_-vo, man. That was truly some high caliber stuff there, De Palma."

Soon clapping hands joined in Vector's uproarious yucking.

"Yeah, laugh it up, you old suitcase. You wouldn't think it was so funny if you had two fuckin' drunks staring at'cha tits."

"Girl, you know you liked it. That was your natural audience," just under the rim of his sight Vector spotted a manila file folder lying on his desk, on the lip was written AMNESIA CHICK in black Sharpee. "Whoa, Fi, what's this?"

"Oh," Fiona pointed at it. "Got some movement on that Brianna VonBargen case."

"You kiddin'?" Vector picked up the folder. "We finally got a bite on that amnesia gig?"

"Yeah. I think I got a lead on someone who'd rented her an apartment back in '05. They may still have some of her stuff."

"Jesus pleezus. Where'd that come from?"

"Lucky break," Fiona said, dividing the pile of mobiums in half. "Word is, this mole named Arnold Resetti, a super at this ritzy apartment complex in Lexington, Station Square, right? Gets himself murdered and his wife has to take over the building. But a couple o'months before Resetti got clipped, he'd rented a room to our girl. Well, old lady Resetti just recently passed away and one of her grandkids found an old credit card in a shoebox, name of Brianna VonBargen on the plastic," she cocked a wry brow. "Idiot tried to use it at a Nordstrom's."

The croc loosed a bray and clapped his hands jovially. "Thank God for stupid-ass grandkids," Vector leaned back in his chair; it squeaked unhappily at not being oiled since its manufacture in 1975. He fanned his face with the folder. "Imagine that," he said dreamily, then straightened to the tune of another doleful squeak. "Okay, foxy, here's what we do. Get amnesia-chick on the horn, tell'er we have a lead."

Fiona grabbed a pad and pen and quickly jotted down his instructions in her own special shorthand. "Gotcha."

"Tell her we need more cash to finance an intensive investigation based upon the new data," he waggled his hand. "You know, some wordy bullshine like that."

"Gotcha," Fiona crossed her long legs as she continued to write.

"Then tell her back in Y2K she promised to give me a blowjob."

"Got-" she looked up at him with a glare that would've fried an egg, having partially written some of that last bit down. "You are such a creep, you know that, V."

Vector hunched his shoulders and spread out his hands, looking as cute as he pleased. "Worth a try, right?"


	7. CHAPTER SIX

**CHAPTER SIX**

For Brianna, Ellis Bearenger turned out to be more of a headache than she could have imagined. A fairly jolly drunk at the party, lots of entertainment for the kids as he spun crusty tales of his youth as a cadet in the fire brigade, it turned out he had come on foot from the Dead Poet's Tavern and had no way to get home. He lived, unfortunately, in a miserable mobile home parked on a miserable lot way out on a miserable country road that spent half its time closed due to mud slides. But with Trevor too plowed to drive, the guests at the party dead-set on driving straight home to work on their hangovers for tomorrow, Brianna Elizabeth VonBargen - with just one eggnog in her - wound up driving Ellis home at two-thirty in the middle of the night. Her car, a 2002 Ford Taurus SEL, that was disintegrating into rust so that she could afford the house payments, was not well-suited to winter driving: bald tires, cranky motor, a haunted transmission that spooked in and out of gear whenever it felt like it. But the danger was worth it: Ellis would be home and out of her life until next year.

Ellis was slumped to his left; his elbow promptly posted on the center armrest and his head promptly posted on his fist, the features of the left side of his face grotesquely stretched like melting taffy as his head drooped against his knuckles. Brianna hoped Ellis would be so hammered he'd pass out and wouldn't be much more of a bother for the rest of the trip. Well, one could dream.

With one bleary, bloodshot eye creaked halfway open, he was voyeuristically spying the bat as she drove, feigning unconsciousness. That old spy-eye roved up and down her, not missing a detail. She was wearing a close-fitting olive green turtleneck sweater, opting to leave her coat behind since the car was warmed up from inside the garage. Her face bore a haggard expression as she concentrated on the icy stretch of desolate road. She looked a little tired, her once radiant glow from earlier had dulled somewhat, but this did nothing to diminish her impossibly good looks - even thrown the bat was a stunner.

The surly old curmudgeon's spy-eye, though, was planted squarely on the profile of her bust. The dark cable-knit cotton clung snugly to her chest, emphasizing the high, prominent thrust and full swell of her ample bosom. Ellis hid a frustrated groan under his fake snores as he slaveringly enjoyed the way her breasts rose and fell subtly to each breath she took; at how they would bounce, quiver, then settle enticingly to every bump and uneven grade in the old road.

"What are you, a double D or somethin'?" he mumbled so blubbery and incoherently, even he didn't fully comprehend what he'd said.

In the windshield's reflection Ellis saw Brianna's brow pinch in enquiry. "Hm?"

"Ub, th-that was a really swell party," he quickly saved himself. "And thanks again for the ride."

"No problem, Ellis," she replied as affably as she could.

"You didn't have to go through all this trouble. I coulda just crashed in that armchair, and, and hhhoofed it to the station in the morning."

"As much as I'm sure Trevor would've relished finding some drunk old bruin marinating in his favorite chair," with a cheeky sideways glance, Brianna smirked wryly as the bear chuckled. "we all thought it best if you slept off your hangover in your own bed."

"I'm not drunk. Just a little tired is all."

"Why don't you get a little sleep then. You need it. I heard you managed to bore those poor kids for two hours straight."

He snorted jovially. "Yeah, yeah," it took a great amount of effort for the tanked grizzly to turn his head her way. "Hhhey, hey," he was leaning quite heavily on his H's. "you and Trevor, you've been with 'im, what now, two years?"

It sounded like a safe enough question. "Yep. Two years, three months."

"Aw, that's nice. And congratu-tulations. I'm hhhappy for you two kids."

"Thanks, Ellis. That's sweet of you."

"Hhhhey?" the bear made a thumb circle that looked ghostly green in the dash lights. With his other hand he poked his pointer in and out of the circle. "Hhhhow often do you two...?" he made his finger go faster, in and out. "Huhn? _Huhn?"__  
_

"How often do we what? Poke our fingers through a circle and pull them out again?" she quipped sarcastically to the waning bear, earning her a couple of burbly chuckles. "Every chance we get. Shut your beer hole. Get some sleep."

Ellis plopped a warm and crusty hand on her right forearm. "Look, I know you think I'm too old. And, and Trevor - I'm not knockin' the guy or anything. Hhhe's a real straight arrow."

"Uh-huh,"

"But if you ever get bored with that guy, you still got ol' Ellis," he chuckled drunkenly as his pudgy thumb rubbed at her forearm through the sleeve. "I could show you things that upstart never even dreamed of."

"As wonderful as that sounds-" Brianna shifted her arm so that Ellis' lead-weight hand fell away. "-you're just a little too well-oiled for my taste, Ellis."

"I'm _not_ drunk!" he turned to her, trying his best to straighten his face and posture. And failing. "See? Do I look drunk to you?"

"See it. Honey, I can smell it."

"Aaaw, horseshit," he grumbled in that drunk old man way. "I'm telling you, I'm not drunk."

Brianna sighed. "Ellis, you're one hiccup away from blacking out and having little white bubbles frothing at the edges of your mouth. You're soused. Just admit it to yourself then pass out like any other self-respecting wino so I can get you home in peace."

"I'm _not_ drunk, I'm telling you! Look, I'll prove it to ya. Look, look," he tipped his head back, spread his arms as best he could, then tried to touch the end of his broad black nose with the tips of his forefingers. His right finger missed the mark at the middle of his huge muzzle by a mile, poking him in the eye before finding his nose. His left hand, however, hovered in front of Brianna's face, blocking her view of the road momentarily.

"Hey," she grunted, swatting his hand away. A curve was coming up that looked slick. He dropped his hand lower and _accidentally_ poked her right breast. "HEY!" she snapped angrily as she tried to battle him away with her elbow, but his hand was suddenly everywhere, the nasty old bastard.

"Whoops!" Ellis cawed as his hand worked like a mosquito around her jabbing elbow, copping a feel wherever he could. "Whoopsie! Whoopsie!"

She quickly took a hand off the wheel to slap at him. "ELLIS, GODDAMMIT!"

"I'm sorry!" he cried, a big drunk grin plastered on his face as he defended himself from her admonishing blows.

"KEEP YOUR FILTHY PAWS-"

Something moved in front of her. The Taurus' headlights splashed across it to present the rare picture of a huge deer standing in the middle of the road with puffs of steam jetting from its nostrils. Stunned by the light, it was frozen in place with its eyes glowing a cinematic red in the glare, its antlers sticking up like broken bones.

A shriek of shock and horror escaped Brianna as she spun the wheel to the left. Ice took sudden command; the car broadsided the deer before she could even find the brake. It whomped against the front fender, snapped the grill, and folded the hood up like an awning. Instead of flipping up over the car, all two hundred pounds of the adult buck smashed through the windshield. Pebbles of crushed glass sprayed into the car like hail, and Brianna had a sudden faceful of deer hide that smelled of pine trees and dog fur, the weight of the beast crushing her backward against the seat and driving the breath from her lungs in a massive wheeze.

Yet the dear wasn't dead, it was thrashing and squawling wildly in pain and terror. The weight against her upper body was gone, there again, gone. She saw Ellis' face, a pale rictus of belated horror. One of the deer's flailing rear hooves smashed against his forehead, hacking out a chunk of skull and brain from temple to temple that the onrushing wind scooped backward like glops of spaghetti. Before the car slid off the curve to plow head-on into a huge tree Brianna was dazedly thinking, _Ellis has lost his mind. Ellis has lost his mind. Ellis has lost his mind. Ellis has lost his-_

The tree put an end to that.

So then this happening at this moment...

_The impact hurled the deer away. Brianna spat through the shattered remains of the windshield bound for parts unknown, instantly swallowed by the darkness. The steering wheel had done a quick job on her jaw, the dash had opened her face - but now she was flying, though, not with her wings. Airborne. A slo-mo shot, end over end, fifth-grade teacher Brianna Elizabeth VonBargen describing a lazy arc through the frozen air of the night. There was nothing to hear: Brianna's internal soundtrack paused for this event. The Ford Taurus, the car that had carried her safely for one hundred and seventy thousand miles, erupted into a fireball that lit the winter forest like an atomic blast, shook it in a brief earthquake. A hundred pines dropped a freight of snow from weakened branches. Woodland birds flapped away, cawing out a protest. Some saplings began to burn._

_And Brianna, still tumbling in a graceless slo-mo, slapped flat on her back into a snowdrift that sat atop a raft of soggy woodfall. Disappeared into it, carving a huge snow angel that fell back into itself in a puff of white crystal. At the scene of the crash, the deer, it's back broken, tried to escape with its rear legs splayed out nervelessly. It coughed out great clouds of steam into the crackling orange light, parts of its hide were on fire, its eyes were huge and rolling with the madness of fear._

_From within the sarcophagus of snow, rose a bat of blood. She stood up. Stared dazedly into the dark woods. Clothes torn and matted, crimson streaking down her face to her knees, she began to totter through the high drift back to the wrecked car. Though it's clearly Brianna VonBargen under all of that red, there was something very wrong about her eyes. In the guttering light she staggered to the suffering deer as it squirmed helplessly in the middle of the road. She knelt beside it, put her hands on the antlers to steady its head against the ground, and formed a fist of her right hand. She raised it only slightly, her own eyes huge and insane._

_With a shout she drove a destructive punch just behind the skull._

Crack!

_It died instantly, mercifully._

_Only then did Brianna Elizabeth VonBargen allow herself to collapse._


	8. CHAPTER SEVEN

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

Nathaniel Eppollouse Crane, a.k.a. Nack the Weasel, now sobriqueted One-Eyed Nack, had been a familiar face in Metropolis State Prison for half the years of his life, on and off. This last gig had lasted eight years, just enough to tip the scales identifying him as a career criminal. Equipped with this new career, the purple-pelted weasel spent a good deal of time at Metro in his section's dayroom watching television, seated at one of the little desks that had once belonged to a nearby high school and still bore the awkward carvings of teenage love and a lot of graffiti of a less tender sort. Life in prison had a lot less anal-raping and a lot more boredom than the public could ever appreciate, and to tell the truth, One-Eyed Nack had become a TV-aholic as his time dragged on. Between breakfast and lunch and supper the dayrooms always had a TV you could switch on. While most of the inmates here were forced into prison jobs like laundry and machine shop, One-Eyed Nack (he hated the epithet, but he wore a black eyepatch over his left eye and deserved it) had proven himself antisocial early on in his new home, and the honor of his presence was seldom requested. Times had come when this warden or that warden decided to crack down on him and his ilk; though Nack might never know what an "ilk" was, the wardens here were of the political-appointee ilk and Nack's _I'll-kill-you!_ attitude when they confronted him made him a rodent to be left alone. Even when the anal-raping sessions were underway. Especially then.

But now the TV was on and One-Eyed Nack was at his desk in the only good mood he could muster. His missing eye under the dark cotton patch hurt and itched most of the time. One of the muscles at the back edge of his optic aperture had never really been expunged properly and produced a drop of pus at the rate of one thick yellow drop every twelve hours. The hired-help doctors brought to the prison now and then had expressed concern, prescribed antibiotics, promised to schedule surgery, but it never happened. A minor little operation, it would spare him some suffering. Maybe that was why it never came about. One-Eyed Nack was a complete and utter asshole and deserved to suffer in every possible way.

For these reasons, and other small ones not worth mentioning here, One-Eyed Nack was alone in the Metropolis State Prison D-section dayroom watching the boob-tube the day after Brianna Elizabeth VonBargen was ambulanced to a hospital in the middle of the night. Currently the regional news was airing, pretty much a crashing bore unless someone had been murdered nearby and the suspect was apprehended. It was almost like meeting a celebrity when the murderer left the tangle of the courts and came to Metro in chains. _Look, it's that guy who was on the news all summer; let's fuck him in the ass! _Tonight, though, the television people had only the most mundane crap to present. An arson fire here, a high-speed chase there. Just before the weather report tonight Channel 13 even scraped deeply enough to air segments from different Christmas parades that had taken place around the neighboring counties. One-Eyed Nack gazed at the caged TV bolted to the wall with all the enthusiasm of a blind man. He was a non-stop smoker and the ashtray on the desk was piled high with crushed filters; he poked another smoking butt into the center of Mt. Emphysema, cursing under his breath at the sorry state of television, wishing the damn thing had a remote so he could turn the fucker off. He immediately pulled out another cigarette and popped it between his lips.

Right now, though, the overly-chipper announcer was blowing off about these godawful parades no one gave two airborne fucks about. _"...Well, so much for the flame-swallowing Santa of Bayonetta County, eh, Tom? Heh heh heh. Meanwhile, WSOA news cameras journeyed north to upper Moorehaven Cove, where Santa's own Mrs. Kringle turned out to celebrate her hubby's worldwide tour. And after looking at her, I'm thinking Santa got what _he _wanted this Christmas. Right, Jerry..."_

But now Nack's gaze was welded to the TV, his mouth was hanging slack, his breathing had squeaked to a halt from the force of what he was seeing.

"The fuck?!" the weasel said at last, a thick, guttural Downunda accent betraying his true nation of origin. "You gotta be fuckin' kiddin'!" he squinted his one good eye at the television screen, blinked hard, blinked again. "No...no, you gotta be fuckin' kiddin' me!"

But no one was fucking kidding him. Mrs. Kringle was, indeed, a woman he had met before.

"No! No way! No bloody fuckin' way!" Nack seethed maniacally at the television as the cigarette that dangled from his lips flew across the room. He smashed both fist down on the desk, screaming out a shout of pure rage while the ashtray overflowing with spent butts did a quick jitterbug off the edge of the desktop.

"THAT'S IMPOSSIBLE!" he rose up out of the desk and charged toward the television. He grabbed at the steel mesh protecting the set and pulled at it, clawed at it, smashed his fists against it like he'd gone rabid, which by the way he was flinging spittle from his mouth he was pretty much there. "NO! NO FUCKING WAY! NOOO! NOOO! NOOOOO!"_  
_

His good eye bulged at the image and his face bubbled with adamant fury. In the small part of his brain that still retained a bit of reason promised him one thing. If pure unadulterated hate could get him out of Metro, he would meet her again.


	9. CHAPTER EIGHT

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

Brianna Elizabeth VonBargen was not alone in her hospital room two days later, but it made no difference to her. She could have been in the presence of Jesus Christ and Satan while they danced a tango cheek-to-cheek beside her bed and not have cared. Being in a coma was a weird experience, she had no memory of having lived, had no way of knowing if she was dead. Her fiancé Trevor Underwood was there at her side most of the time, but he might as well have saved himself the bother. Around her bed were acres of flowers in wild bursts of colors that she did not see as she lay face-up with fat plastic tubes running through her nostrils. Get-well cards hung from strings Trevor and Dawn had taped to the ceiling. Fat balloons shiny as chrome pressed between them, still taut with helium; the purchasers had hopes that before the things sank to the floor with their happy messages, Brianna would be out of her coma.

It was late. Trevor and Dawn had exhausted every bit of small talk they could muster; it is hard to stay bubbly when speaking to a person as silent as a corpse. Dawn had squirmed into her coat and galoshes and Trevor leaned over the bed to give Brianna a soft peck on her right eye, feeling a little odd doing it, intruding upon the privacy of a woman so utterly helpless. He brushed her eyelash with his lips and offered her sweet dreams. He straightened her bedsheet and tucked it gently around her chest.

Dawn approached the bed, tired and exhausted, nearly dried out from crying so much, but now she was just down to meager sniffles. She took her mother's hand. It was cold, lifeless.

"Mommy?" Dawn tried to rouse her, the zillionth-and-first of a zillion tries.

Hideous gray-white gauze wrapped the upper portion of Brianna's head and left ear, and her cocoa butter skin was now mottled in sallow hues of aubergine and jaundice; her once luxurious coat of snow white fur was now matted and clumped with dried flecks of blood and medical salves. She looked so unlike herself. So unlike the beautiful, vibrant creature that was dancing and twirling so merrily a mere two days ago. Dawn thought she had no more tears to shed, until she looked at her mother's face again.

She laid her head on Brianna's chest and spread her arms in an attempt at an embrace, hoping the hug would be all that was needed to bring her mother back to her, back from the dark. "Don't go," she warbled.

"Dawn, honey, she can't hear you."

The little bat looked up at Trevor, her face so distraught it nearly brought the French teacher to tears.

For Dawn's sake, and maybe his own, he recanted. "She can't hear you, but her heart can."

It was enough to stop the floodgates from rupturing. She fell back to her mother's bosom, finding just a miniscule bit of comfort hearing her breathe.

"We have to go, kiddo. You need some sleep," he stepped over and took Dawn by the shoulders. She made a defiant sound, and just one tug of her Trevor knew he wouldn't be able to pry the little bat away from her mother with a crowbar. "Please, honey. If she's going to get well, she'll need her rest too."

Those words made the little bat relent her grip. He could feel her shoulders sag and slowly he eased Dawn up and away from her mother's chest. Already the girl missed the sound of her mother's heartbeat.

"Let's go. We'll come back in the morning."

Dawn looked up, sadness and exhaustion hoarsing her tiny voice. "Promise."

"I promise," Trevor said, forcing a smile. "First thing."

One last look at the sleeping bat in hospital blue. They said their goodbyes, and left hand in hand. The door clicked softly shut and would not be opened again unless an emergency struck or the swing-shift nurse came in to take the patient's vitals, which was scheduled for eight p.m.

But in the dark, sedate room, the only sounds medical machines blipping and whirring, things began to happen.

She stood on a windswept cliff. Thunderclaps rumbled across an oppressive black sky as storm clouds billowed past an ominous full moon. She was Brianna, still alive in the hospital, still alive in her mind. She stood at the cliff's edge wearing her hospital gown, the stiff garment flounced around her nude body as the howling winds coursed uneasily around her like the breath of Death. Without warning - and without startling her - there was a mirror facing her. It was her full length mirror from home, the one she stood naked in front of many a time as she tried to guess her age and wondered of the many old scars that decorated her body. In it she saw herself - who else? - but she was bleeding from a wound on her scalp. A couple of trickling lines down the left side of her forehead were the total amount of the bleeding. She remembered, in this coma-dream, that she wore a mysterious ragged scar there, under the fur, in front of her left ear - a relic of her forgotten past. She raised her hand to touch the blood. Nothing there.

Not her own reflection, then. But still it was there, mimicking her movements with perfect synchronicity.

"What do you want?" she asked it, and felt great surprise that she did.

Her reflection eyed her grimly, a spirit unto itself now. "I want a cigarette," it whispered.

Brianna's response was a reflex: "I don't smoke."

Her reflection, the bloody chiropteran in the mirror who looked so tired and so determined, sneered at her. "You used to."

This meant nothing.

A spark flared near Brianna's right hand - a cigarette was between her fingers. She raised it wonderingly to her lips and took a drag. The reflection seemed to be hers again. But while she choked on the smoke, bent over slightly at the waist and coughed into her fist, the reflection simply inhaled and blew out a long, satisfying stream of smoke.

"Relax," it said, a voice that was Brianna's, and wasn't - huskier, breathier. "You can drop the act now. Nice and smooth, take another hit."

Brianna tried the cigarette again.

"There you go. See? See how easy it all comes back?"

She exhaled smoothly. Now the reflection was hers again. The violent winds bellowing across the cliff slowed, tapered off to nothing.

But the image spoke one last time: "I'm coming back. You kinda know that, though, don't you? Name's Rouge, by the way. You're gonna fuckin' love me."

The reflection smiled, a full-mouthed, shit-eating grin from ear the ear. Its teeth were slick and shiny with blood. Brianna surged backward with a cry and plunged off the cliff, falling into a black abyss.

At which point she woke up in her hospital bed, tired, disoriented and terrified. Woke up as all of us do until the day comes when we hit bottom and never awaken again.


	10. CHAPTER NINE

**CHAPTER NINE**

Vector Ian Ospina, cheap detective and a crocodile prone to running prostitution scams with his secretary just to pay the bills, was not crass enough to let the upcoming Christmas go by without a visit to his adopted young son while he had the chance. Vector's ex-wife had a particularly bad case of _kill-the-motherfucker-on-sight_ syndrome common to women who spent years supporting big-talking, get-rich-quick scheming, unemployed bums, but this Christmas she had agreed to let Vector visit Corry Charmissi - Charmy for short - on a day not appointed by the court. Provided, though, that he restrict his visit to five minutes on the front porch. The porch was an enclosed type, lots of windows and a little heat, so things could have been worse.

They were sitting on the front steps together. He had brought a present which Charmy had opened in the second of the five minutes after the father-son banter had dwindled into smiles deficient of anything pertinent to say. The entire thing for his love of the boy, the dozens of ways he wanted to inject a note of fatherliness into the honey bee's fatherless past...it all fell apart in his presence. There really weren't many things that could pierce the leathery hide of Vector Ian Ospina; Charmy was on the top of the list, the only name on the list at all.

"Oooh, cool! A PlayStation 4!" Charmy shouted ecstatically as he ripped the rest of the Christmas wrapping paper from the big black box.

"Thought you'd like that," Vector said as he stared at the joyous gleam in his son's eyes. The big croc couldn't help but smile himself - the boy's happiness was infectious. "Open the box, son. I think Santa mighta put a little somethin' extra in there for ya."

Charmy saw that the top flap had been tampered with. He pulled it open to find that some of the packing cardboard had been removed and a pack of four CD cases were tucked inside held together with Santa Claus-themed tape. He removed the cases and discovered a cache of the newest releases. "Aaaw, Dad! Killzone! Call Of Duty Ghosts!" his amber eyes excitedly scanned the labels of the other cases. "Battlefield! Assasin's Creed 4!"

"I hope you like 'em. I, uh, played it a little before Fiona wrapped it up, you know, to test it out, make sure it works," he smiled innocently. "So some of the wires might be in the box a little tangled up, I sorta lost some of those little bread-twisty things."

Charmy glanced up into his father's eyes for something Vector Ospina was at a loss to understand, much less give. There was always a wonder and awe of him whenever he came to visit the little honey bee. Perhaps, adoration, he hoped, but he knew he didn't deserve it.

"Thanks, Dad."

A voice rocketed through the front door: "CHARMY, TIME FOR DINNER! NOW!"_  
_

Mom followed her voice onto the porch. Holding the door open she looked at Charmy, favored Vector with a brief, sub-zero glance, looked to Charmy again. Vector gave her a friendly wave of the hand, a gesture of peace. She ignored it and went back inside, the door still hanging purposefully open, the unspoken news announcing _the party's over!_ hanging in the air like black streamers at a gathering of the dead.

Vector stood up. "You go ahead, son. Go eat," he smiled, but all he had done for these last five minutes was smile. Memories of the precious little time he'd spent with his son danced through his mind like a sieve. Ten years old, how fast the life of your child can seem to speed on by when you can only see him in such tiny increments within the year. A thousand dreams for his son were still there in his mind, but the divorce and a custody fight had left him farther removed from the boy than a great-great-grand uncle. "I'm glad you like your present."

Charmy began packing it back together, moving slowly, trying to stretch out the precious little time he had to spend with his father. "It's awesome, Dad, really," he crunched the CD cases back into the box with his coveted gift. "It's great. Can I hook this up now?"

"If your Mom says it's okay."

"Oh, I'll convince her."

Vector smirked. "I don't know, son. She can be a hard woman to win over."

Charmy pointed a thumb at himself, his expression one of cock-sure arrogance. "C'mon, Dad. Who can resist this face when I pour on the charm?"

A proud, fatherly grin overcame the P.I. as he rubbed the boy's head with his big hand, mussing his mop of short dark hair, his little antennae bobbing. "Ha! My boy, the lady killer!" it annoyed the honey bee something fierce, but when Vector did it he could do nothing but chuckle sweetly - only Dad.

Vector almost let his eyes fall shut with remorse. He was a total stranger here, he was the father of a stranger. Why did he come? To offer little baubles in lieu of himself? If only he could scoop Charmy into his arms and run away, run away so that no one could find them, to repair the damage of their fractured relationship before it was too late. But what was he, this father so full of sudden good intentions? A failure and a scam artist.

"All right, get outta here before your mother has me locked up for trespassing. Go on."

"Okay," the little bee said sullenly, looking down at his present.

"Son?" Vector queried.

Charmy looked up, studied his father. "Dad?" he started quietly. "I...I don't know if you know this. But, Mom. She gets...crazy sometimes, when you come to visit."

Vector eyed him, though he figured he knew the reason; there were a myriad of them to choose from. "Crazy, how? Good crazy? Bad crazy?"

"Just, I don't know, weird."

"Weird?" the croc's vermilion eyes quirked.

"Yeah," Charmy spied the open door, and its emptiness, and hoped his mother wasn't within earshot. Turning to his father, he stepped closer and spoke softly. "It's just, well...you remember on my birthday, when you got me that new bike?"

"Yeah, did you like it?"

"Yeah," he turned to the empty doorway again, then back to his father, huddling closer as if he were divulging national secrets to a spy from a foreign government. "Mom called bicycle shops all over town to see if there'd been any robberies."

Vector flinched but only inwardly. Whatever neglectful injuries he had done to Charmy over the years, none could compare to the constant whittling of the ex-axe. It had to be hard for a kid to keep loving a dad he only saw a few minutes a month, when mom was there all year to lay on the hate non-stop. Next thing you know, she'd be telling Charmy that Daddy used to molest him. And all the neighbor kids too.

So it was best to keep things calm. Vector Ian Ospina had seen the dirty backside of the divorce courts and knew he couldn't win, no matter how much he loved his son.

He threw on a smirk. "Well, you can tell her I don't steal 'em locally, okay?" he chuckled.

Charmy grinned and received another quick tussle of the hair, then a nudge coaxing him to head inside. He gave a sniffle. Either because of the freezing winter chill, or for something else, he gazed to his father lovingly. "Merry Christmas, Dad."

"Merry Christmas, son. I love you."

"I love you too."

Slowly, the honey bee walked to the open doorway, the big rectangular PS4 box making him hobble, turned and gave Vector a wave goodbye. Vector stood silently, and raised a hand. Charmy turned and disappeared into the house, the front door giving a slow creaky groan as it solemnly latched shut.

Vector looked out toward the horizon. Trees, snow, maybe more snow coming. The only money in his wallet was leftovers from the scam. Some of the trees in the distance looked suitable for hanging oneself; perhaps with the last of the scam money, he could purchase a proper length of rope. Why the fuck not?

He had just stepped toward the door of the porch enclosure when his cellphone chirped. His brow knitted, only two people knew his number: Fiona, his secretary and Mighty, his bookie. Grumbling he trotted down the three steps and began traversing the sidewalk through snow up to his ankles while the stuff cascaded into his shoes and melted through his socks. He pulled out his phone and checked the caller ID while at the same time retrieving a pack of Marlboro cigarettes, giving it a jerk so that one of the cancer sticks poked up for his lips to easily scoop out.

He saw it was Fiona and answered. "Hey, Fi, me, whassup?"

"_Hey, V. How's everything down there?"_

"Cold."

"_Hardy-har-har. __So, did Charmy like his present?"_

The mention of the boy's name and the look on his face when he opened his Christmas gift put a grin on Vector's mug. "You kiddin'? Thought that kid was gonna bust a nut when he ripped the paper off that box."

_"Classy, V. But I'm glad he liked it. I knew he would," _she said before her tone hitched cautiously. _"And, uh...?"_

"If she'd had a gun in her hand, she'd have emptied the entire clip in my narrow green ass."

"_Ooooh. Sorry I asked."_

"Yeah, well. Shit rolls downhill, whad'ya gonna do?" he mulled glumly as his tired eyes glanced around the fenced enclosure of the tiny yard; at the chain-link fence that was bent inward and outward in several places, at an old tricycle and some old toys that sat covered in dirty snow in the middle of the lawn, at an old paint-chipped doghouse whose sole occupant had long since vacated. A nice memory was devoted to each of these things before the good times ended.

"And you know what the kicker is, Fi? I wouldn't have blamed her one damn iota. You know that horrible feeling you get when you find your life's become a lyric from a sad love song. Well, I got that feeling in spades," he sighed as he peered up into the pale gloomy sky. "I wish the sky wasn't gray. I wish the snow wasn't white. And I wish I still didn't love that bitch."

Fiona exhaled somberly. _"There's one for the Hallmark folks."_

"They're making cards for suicidal sadsacks with the holiday blues now?"

"_Why not. There's one helluva market."_

"Oh, yeah?" he replied, sucking his teeth. "So I'm not the only cat wantin' to put a bullet in his head this time of year. Is that what you're sayin', babe?"

_"You'd be surprised at the number of people who off themselves right around Christmastime."_

"Hm. And was that little cup of holiday cheer supposed to make me feel better, Fi?"

"_Not really. It just shows that you're normal."_

"Shows I'm pathetic, Fi."

"_Well, I think I got something that'll make you smile those sharp pearly whites."_

He scoffed skeptically. "Think so, huh?"

"_Yep. Got another nibble on the VonBargen case. Remember that landlady I told you about in Station Square?"_

"Yeah," his brow furrowed in interest.

"_Well, turns out amnesia-chick was one of her favorite tenants. Very quiet and clean, kept to herself and paid her rent on time. Then one day she goes out and never comes back. The old lady's very sad. So sad she can't bear to throw away any of amnesia-chick's shit. It's a goldmine, V! Clothes, books, furniture - there's even an old postcard that's never been mailed. The woman telling some uncle of hers that she'd just got engaged. Brianna's handwriting - perfect match. She was about to get hitched to some rube in Windy Valley when she dropped off the face of the world. No phone number, just an address. Right now all of her stuff's sittin' in a U-Rent Storage lot. The old lady's elderly brother's gettin' the key to it ready as we speak."_

Vector's face ripened into a gaping smile. "Holy shit! Score! Big fuckin' score, Fi, sweetheart, that's worth time and a half, you beautiful fox you!"

He could feel Fiona's grin radiating through the phone. It took a lot to make the big lug laud. _"Double, ya deadbeat. I made us look good. Her other P.I.s couldn't find dick."_

"'Course they couldn't - took a true dickhound such as yourself," Vector simpered, pulling out a Zippo lighter and lighting his cigarette. He pulled a deep drag off the smoke, feeling good for the first time in weeks. "Okay," he said as he started making his way to the open gate that led to his car, an old run-down, faded blue '69 Pontiac Bonneville convertible, strutting with a little more pep in his step. "Get dressed mama, and put on your best smile. We're goin' out to see this guy, post haste."

"_You bet, V."_

"I'll see ya," he slapped the phone shut.

Vector strolled around to the driver's side humming a few bars of _Let It Snow._ The door creaked like a belching elephant as he opened it, and slid in with his keys jingling in his hand. His eyes caught themselves as he glanced at the rearview mirror, wispy tendrils of cigarette smoke whorled upward, obscuring his image just slightly. "What are you smiling for, jackass," he spoke amiably to the croc smirking back at him in the glass. "You're supposed to be depressed."

The engine coughed and wheezed as he cranked the ignition, and the fan belt commenced its ritualistic chorus of whines and squeals. When it finally started and the usual expulsion of gray-blue smoke climbed from the sagging tailpipe in a blossoming cloud, he dropped the shift into drive and jerked away from the curb. He gave the quaint little tract house that occupied his son and ex one final longing glance before looking back to the preening reptile in the tiny rectangular mirror. "Nobody likes you. Everybody hates you. You're gonna lose."

He turned on the radio and a familiar oldie filled the grubby interior drowning out the struggling groans of a motor that hadn't been tended to by a mechanic in eons. His face-splitter broadened so wide it would have given the Cheshire cat a run for his money in the World's Greatest Grin competition.

"Guess you're too stupid to know any better, huh? So you just keep on smilin', jack."

He sped down the road, thumping his fingers on the steering wheel and bobbing his head to the music, slinging gouts of slush from bald tires and chugging smoke from the rear like a coal-fed locomotive as he made a wide right turn on Brayburn Street and headed for the outskirts of town feeling like the man he always wanted to be - a real detective on a real case.


	11. CHAPTER TEN

**CHAPTER TEN**

Brianna, home again.

Her face turned out to be not as bad as it seemed at first. Her jaw had been dislocated by its encounter with the steering wheel and the mysterious old scar along her scalp had been slashed open again. Facial wounds bleed tremendously, as do scalp wounds. Her face was purple and green in areas, but these were fading fast. Her chest was still sore from being crushed by the deer, but all in all it was a prodigious recovery. Ellis Bearenger's funeral had been two days ago, the remaining pieces of the guest of honor presented to the public in a sealed coffin that in reality could have been a shoebox, for all that was left of him after the deer and the crash and the fire. As Fire Marshall of Moorehaven Cove he was heavily eulogized by the mayor and the chief of police, his bravery was remarked upon, his sterling record as a public servant. This was okay with Brianna: the old cuss wasn't exactly a rapist, just a lonely, dirty old bear.

Right now she and Trevor Underwood were in the kitchen making supper. Trevor was convinced he made the world's most wicked casserole - tuna fish and ham, heavy on the salt and weighty enough to punch a crater into the floor if dropped - and Brianna was laboriously slicing a carrot for the salad, one difficult piece at a time, wary of cutting her fingers after being recently cut up so badly herself.

Trevor drew up beside her and leaned against the counter. "Honey, you got an ETA on that carrot? Estimated Time of Amputation?"

"Stow it," she growled dangerously at him from the kitchen island, angling a gimlet stare his way before a grin gave way to his facetiousness. "A finger should be gone before long. I assume it'll go into the casserole."

"Bats' fingers _are_ the secret ingredient," he grinned wickedly at her. "Maybe you should take Mr. Carrot with you to school tomorrow? Finish him up there."

"Oh, honey, you're so hilarious," Brianna chirped sarcastically. "I'm in stitches over here - literally. All it takes is a little leverage and-_ouch!"_ she jerked her hand from the cutting board: a tiny bead of blood was swelling on her thumb.

"Bri, here," Trevor said, reaching. "gimme that knife."

"No!" she jerked away sucking her boo boo, looking like a bratty little child not wanting to share her toys. "I'm gonna cut this frickin carrot and you're going to eat the blood-soaked pieces and like it, buddy, so piss off!" she shooed him back with a wave of the kitchen knife.

"Fine, fine," the mouse said without rancor, and wandered back to his casserole. In a second he was chopping away at his own stuff, his knife hammering out a smooth and steady beat.

Brianna glanced away from him, frowning, and addressed the obnoxious orange tuber again. Her face hurt a little, but her inexplicable clumsiness hurt worse. She shifted the knife in her fingers, repositioned the carrot, chewed on her tongue for a bit. Then slowly: _chop_.

Whoop-de-friggin-do! She'd created a slice.

She glanced over to Trevor again, studying his moves as he transformed a stalk of celery into angular slices. Her face hurt, and she was in a relatively bad mood, but dammit, no woman worth her salt should be so damned spastic with an ordinary kitchen knife.

_Chop. Chop-chop-chop._

Better. No Rachel Ray, but better. She poked her tongue between her lips and concentrated harder.

_Chopchopchopchopchopchop-_

It was miraculously done in seconds.

_Whoa!_

"Trev?" she said uncertainly. "Babe? Look at somethin' will ya?"

He looked. In the space of several seconds his eyes began to widen. Brianna had now arranged three carrots in a row on the cutting board. With the knife suddenly flashing so fast it seemed a blur, she diced the first two carrots into uniform chunks, then whisked a bit of the other one into a perfect decorative spiral, an accordion of carrot. With a huge grin, she flipped the ribbon off the cutting board with the flat side of the blade and tossed it into her mouth.

Trevor lurched backward a step. "Bri, how the hell...?"

She drew her arms to her chest and spun in a ballerina's pirouette, squealing with jubilent delight. "I used to do this! I...I think I was a chef!" she gave a whoop as she brought the knife up to her face and menaced its shiny blade with a show of teeth. Trevor stared stunned. Brianna glared wildly at the mouse. "Gimme another carrot," she growled at him, her eyes flashing, seeming to look, with her bruised and battered face, just the slightest bit like that little demon-possessed girl in _The Exorcist_. "Gimme something else, quick, anything, anything! I'm hot! I'M HOT!"_  
_

Dawn came into the kitchen, attracted by the excitement. She eyed her mom and traded expressions with Trevor, who then made a face of bewilderment. Giving a shrug, he pulled open the door of the refrigerator and bent inside for something to chop. A cold tomato found his hand. He straightened and gave it to Dawn.

"Here," he said. "Don't ask me why, just give it to your mom."

Dawn turned and tossed it to her mother. "Here, Mom, a tomato," she announced.

Brianna caught it. "To-_mah_-to!" she placed it on the cutting board, eyed it, nodded slightly. In less than five ticks of an Olympic clock it was sliced razor-thin, sagging onto itself, stunned.

Brianna's eyes were wide and hungry as she looked at Trevor then her daughter. "More."

Trevor complied. "Onion," he tossed it to Dawn.

Dawn relayed it, a giggling fiend. "Onion!"

Brianna caught the throw, diced it to pieces. "More," she said, her eyes darting to Dawn, darting to Trevor. "More! More!" she was gesturing with hand and blade like a mad woman. She didn't want this extraordinary feeling to end. After eight long insufferably shitty years of being in the dark, something, _praise God,_ something was finally coming back to her.

Trevor relayed a head of cabbage. Dawn heaved it. Brianna caught it with her left hand, plopped the leafy softball down onto the cutting board, whacked it into a spray of salad that landed mostly on the floor and under the island counter. "More!" she barked. "Faster!"

Trevor hadn't heard that tone in her voice since they'd last had a roll in the hay a week ago. He winked at Dawn when he had her eye. "Bucket brigade, ready? Go!" he knelt to the crisper at the bottom of the fridge and started catapulting produce with both hands. "Pepper! Pepper! Potato! Carrot!"

The kitchen floor was quickly becoming an all-you-can-eat salad buffet. Dawn tried best she could to keep the double juggling act rolling, tossing and announcing what she caught to her mom. "Pepper! Carrot! Onion!"

Dawn missed a few, Brianna missed none. Her left hand rock-steady, her right a buzzing saw, she sliced, diced, and even came up with some curly fries. Trevor began lobbing things at her directly; Dawn stood back laughing like a loon as vegetable projectiles flew past her only to meet a flourishy end at the swift blade of her suddenly culinary-savvy mother. A food fight would break out after awhile.

"Go, Mom!" Dawn cheered as she stepped over to Trevor.

He took her by the shoulders and held her once he'd run out of veggies to fling. Both were a laughing riot and awe-eyed as the white bat whittled expertly at the last of the cucumbers and scallions, dicing them to smithereens as the whisking edge of her knife missed her fingertips by mere millimeters, a gleeful smile so bright on her face it could've melted all the snow in the neighborhood.

"Look at this woman, she's amazing!" Trevor piped ecstatically. "Eat your heart out, Martha Stewart!"

With the flair of a Japanese chef, Brianna flipped the knife in a twirl and caught it by the tip of the blade, balancing it on the end of her forefinger while simultaneously picking up a tomato. She tossed the orb across the kitchen and followed it with a throw of the knife.

_Ka-chuk!_

The tomato, stabbed through the center, was pinned to the wall, leaking a string of reddish juice to trickle down the paint.

She looked at Trevor and Dawn, beaming, breathing hard, but sobered quickly when she saw the twin expressions of astonishment on their faces, the fun suddenly over. Guilty, reddening slightly, she numbly shrugged her shoulders and stammered the only thing that came into her mind. "Um, chefs do that...I guess."


	12. CHAPTER ELEVEN

**CHAPTER ELEVEN**

In the middle of the night, in the middle of no place in particular, a brown beaver wearing no shirt was strapped to a chair while another man, unrestrained and dressed quite warmly for such sub-freezing temperatures, rummaged through a briefcase. The briefcase was on the hood of a black sedan. The headlights were on. Though he was impeccably dressed, the man was pretty much just a figure in the dark, because the beaver and his chair sat in the cold bright wash of the high beams, blinded by them. The car? A brand-ass new 2014 Aston Martin Vanquish V12.

The beaver's name? It made no difference.

The man?

"Shadow, _please!"_ the beaver was blubbering miserably, his face waxen with terror. "I know you're gonna kill me, I know that, I know that," his teeth chattered horrendously. "But please use the gun, not the knife. Please. I, I'm beggin' ya, as a favor to me, please, I'm beggin' ya, I'm fuckin' _beggin'_ ya!"

"It will all be over soon," Shadow spoke, his voice a deep, gravelly baritone rumbling through the blackness, almost guttural and very, _very_ menacing.

"But I'm scared of the knife. Please, Shadow, man, I can't even handle getting shots at the doctor's. Please, man. C'mon, _please!"_

"Shhh," Shadow placed a finger to his lips. "I'm sorry, but it has to be the knife. I'm copycatting a wanted serial killer. The M.O. has to match, the scene has to be right...and the knife is his weapon of choice," the spiked silhouette tilted his head as he watched the beaver continue his sniveling. "Hey? Count your blessings I chose to mimic the Central City Slasher instead of the Babylon Night Mangler. Slasher just gutted his victims. Mangler sodomized his first before filleting 'em - male or female," the beaver kept on, his blubbering becoming annoyingly worse. "Hey, tell you what. Since I've always liked you, I'll do this. I'll try to make the first stab the one that puts your lights out. Sounds good?"

The beaver made faces, wept tears were frozen around his eyes making the fur there dark and as brittle as dry spaghetti. "Goddamn, you! How could I tell GUN about that Cradle thing? What do I know about it, huh? I don't even know what the fuck it is for Christ's sake!" he spat with a little more base in his tone. "I swear to you, Shadow...I _swear_ to God almighty I don't know a fucking thing!"

But that short burst of bravado left him quickly when Shadow stepped closer, emerging from the darkness into the harsh light like a demon summoned from the deepest pits of Hell. The massive hedgehog, fur black as a Stygian midnight with fiery streaks of crimson highlighting his upsweeping spines, looked the beaver over with the scathing assessment of a professional interrogator. His malevolent blood red eyes seemed to sear right through the beaver. Shadow scrutinized his face, committing tiny details to memory. Analyzing, searching, detecting, scanning; then his slitted red irises locked onto the doomed rodent's dilated eyes. An ingenious half-smirk creased his austere face. "I believe you," Shadow said and meant it. This was the wrong guy.

The beaver stared at Shadow, befuddled as all hell. "W-what?"

"I believe you," Shadow repeated earnestly. "I can tell when someone's lying to me," his black-gloved forefinger darted over different points of the beaver's shivering face. "There's a thousand ticks on a person's face. They're called "tells" actually. Gives you away when you lie, no matter how proficient a liar you are," he grinned, giving a cute little cock of the head. "A little skill of mine, a neat little parlor trick I like to trot out at parties. And the truth is, I really do believe you. You know absolutely dick about Cradle."

"I don't! I-I-I don't! I swear I don't!" the beaver warbled, almost elatedly, his hopes of getting out of this nightmarish predicament seeming to rise. "I told you! I don't know anything about that Cradle shit! I don't know jack!"

Shadow stepped back into the lightlessness, to the side of the car where the briefcase casually sat on its hood, a finger raised. "Now here's the bitch: to find out that you truly knew nothing, I had to tell you some things. Now you know what those things are, so basically, I fucked up. Well, I fucked _you_, to be more precise. Total lapse of professionalism on my part, and for that I apologize. So now, because of what you _now_ know, I have to kill you with the knife. Which you fear. Which is bad."

The beaver's mouth gaped wide. "Wha-wha-wha-what?! Wait, Shadow, please, wait, now just wait a goddamn minute, _please_!"

The dark hedgehog lifted a sheaf of papers from the briefcase and kneeled in front of the car, slapping them down in front of the headlights, fanned them out.

"What're you doin'?! What the fuck are those?!" the beaver demanded, terror lacing his tone. When he saw what was on the spread-out sheets he began to buck wildly at his bonds, huffing and crying piteously. "Oh, God! Oh, Jesus!"_  
_

They were crime scene photos, snapshots taken of the Central City Slasher's grisly murders. Men in various stages of undress tied to chairs - just as the beaver was. Butchered to unrecognizable degrees and gutted open like pigs at a slaughterhouse - just as the beaver was not...yet. Frowning, Shadow looked from picture to the beaver, picture to the beaver, picture to the beaver. With a nod of satisfaction, he gathered the glossies, stepped back to the briefcase, slipped the straightened stack of pictures back inside, and removed a huge Bowie hunting knife, unsheathing it from its scabbard. Light glinted menacingly off the blade.

"No! No please...!" the beaver shook his head frantically as he thrashed and wiggled helplessly in the chair.

Just then cords from the song _I Am All Of Me_ emanated from within Shadow's clothes. Frowning in displeasure, he retrieved his cellphone and placed it next to his cheek. "This had better be fucking important," he growled into it.

The voice did not identify itself. _"Message from Nazo."_

"I'm listening," as the beaver on the chair watched with moist tears and snot running down his face, Shadow pointed to the cellphone at his ear, rolled his eyes, silently mouthed "Can you believe this?" and shook his head as if apologizing for the interruption.

"_Something's come up. He needs you back at the compound ASAP."_

Shadow blew a deeply exasperated sigh into the phone. "What's the problem?"

"_Remember your old colleague, Nack the weasel?"_

He nodded slightly. "Yeah, sure. Heard he's doin' seven-to-ten in Metro State."

"_Not anymore. He broke out about two days ago after seeing something on TV that quote-unquote "disturbed" him. Disturbed him so bad the prison doctors had to sedate him."_

"Yeah, I saw it, too. It's called _Anger Management_, wanna get to the fucking gist?"

"_While under, Nack said that Rouge Devereaux was still alive, sir."_

Shadow stilled, breathed voicelessly into the phone.

"_Nazo is understandably concerned. He was under the impression that you'd taken care of this matter eight years ago. I know it's highly unlikely, but if she were truly alive, I'm thinking she may try to contact the old man in Albion. Should I-"_

"Tap his phone, yes," Shadow finished for him. "Tell Nazo I'm on my way. Out," he placed the phone back into his dark coat, stood for a bit, tapping the point of the knife against his chin. His eyes were deep and troubled. "It never rains, you know?" his ember red slits fell onto the beaver, suddenly steady and calm. Then they hardened. "Never rains, but it always pours."

Shadow advanced onto the beaver, winding back his knife-wielding hand, a murderous scowl on his face.

"No! God! NOOOOO!"_  
_

He slammed the knife home, handle-deep into the beaver's belly. The poor creature loosed a hideous scream. Shadow ripped the knife upward in one vicious slash effortlessly tearing through thick hide and soft muscle, shearing into breastbone and destroying organ meat. The beaver arched violently against the bonds of his restraints, his cries rising higher in volume and pitch until they no longer even sounded mobian.

Shadow took a step back so as to avoid the torrent of gore from splashing on his Gucci's, watching with avid fascination as delirium swirled like a hurricane in the beaver's bulging eyes.

Blood spewed out of his mouth. He choked and gurgled and sputtered, looked down at the large knife embedded in his sternum, and the long, jaggedly gaping fissure it had cleaved from where it had entered at his stomach. Steam rose from his exposed, palpitating entrails. In those brief moments between his agony and his death, the beaver was conscious of only two things: Shadow's red eyes as they watched his in unyielding engrossment, and the furnace-hot pain, which soared in huge, sickening waves to infinitely unbearable heights, then subsided, as his body's natural shock mechanisms began to shut down the circuitry. His body jerked spasmodically, after a few moments, the beaver finally gave one last liquidy death rattle before his head lolled downward in a lifeless droop.

Shadow was true to his word, the first stab was indeed the one that put his lights out.

Shadow _did_ like him after all.


End file.
